It Started with a Fire and It Ended with a Flame
by redfiretruck
Summary: Teen Wolf AU, Sterek: After Stiles' Dad dies in a house fire, Stiles has trouble coping.
1. Chapter 1

|| hi! so, this is my first fanfic that is actually tolerable enough to post. i hope you guys… like it? feel free to give me feedback and whatnot; it'd be completely welcome. otherwise, let me just say that, while i adore teen wolf, by no means is it mine. also, i have no idea where this is going, so M for language right now! … i think that's it. enjoy?! ||

He isn't looking at what he grabs, not really; a glance to ensure the style isn't vomit-inducing and that the size is roughly what it needs to be, then he drops the clothes into the shopping cart and shuffles forward a few more feet and repeats, until he's pretty sure there's enough in the cart for him to get through a week or two without absolutely having to do laundry.

Before he can get to the jean section though, Lydia reappears and wrinkles her nose as she looks at the clump of fabric, then reaches in and picks up two. "Stiles, these are the exact same shirt, just in different colors."

Stiles eyes the two button-downs, then shrugs, says, "Yea, well, blue plaid may bring out the color of my eyes, but it doesn't go with everything, despite what they say. So green seems like a solid second option, don't you think?"

She sighs and drops the shirts, grabbing the cart and pushing it into a different section. "Why not go for something more – mm, fitted? You can't always look like an overgrown second grader."

He follows her after a few seconds, running his fingers over the fabric he passes by, idly, uninterested. "I think it's fine," he says, gaze sliding off to the side, searching for the check out. He's suddenly exhausted; they've been in the mall for over three hours, and it was okay, at first. They mingled in the perfume aisle, Lydia spritzing herself and letting Stiles sniff, and vice versa (and, really, he should have minded, but Lydia kept giggling and it was an excuse to have her close to him, and an odder part of him really didn't care that it was perfume, not cologne, scenting his skin). It was accessories after that, silly-huge sunglasses and painfully expensive scarves and hipster hats, both of them smirking and pretending to be cool (except Lydia actually _was _cool, so she didn't really have to pretend), and then they went to the ladies' portion of the store, where Lydia modeled dresses and skirts and made Stiles fetch her different sizes and colors.

It was all a distraction, he knew, an attempt to get him to relax before they got to the important part – the part where they needed to shop for Stiles, because he has exactly one pair of jeans and an old Beatles t-shirt, and he's been running around in Scott's clothes, which are fine, except sometimes they're tight and clingy and Scott isn't as tall as Stiles, so not only does he look ridiculous in fitted shirts, a good chunk of his ankles and calves show whenever he sits down.

Lydia looks over at him and bites at the corner of her lip for a second, before nodding, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Alright. Looks like we put a dent in it, definitely. We can work on your style later." She smiles, and Stiles returns it more out of habit than because he feels any sort of happiness. That's become a sad habit of his lately, smiling when he doesn't mean it, but Stiles doesn't really want people to know how much he hurts inside, how bad it's killing him to hold himself together and hope the pain goes away.

He knows it won't fix anything; he knows holding it in is the exact opposite of what he should be doing. He saw how… how Dad did it, when Mom died; drowning his sorrows in liquor, and then in work, when he managed to get himself sober. It wasn't healthy, and he doesn't want to be like that, doesn't want to hold onto the pain and let it eat at him and rip him apart, but his problems aren't as important as the pack's. He's got to be strong, he's got to keep his chin up, because he can't be weak, not anymore.

He was weak before, and look what happened.

His jaw locks before he realizes it, and it takes Lydia's voice, soft and careful, to get him to try to shake away the tension in his body. It never really leaves, but he's gotten good at hiding it, at making himself seem comfortable when he's not. He's never comfortable anymore, not since…

"Stiles? Stiles, let's go, okay? Pick up some fries and then head to Scott's…"

"Uh – yea; yea. Curly fries, though, right? I hate straight fries, they're so limiting. Hey, did you know they have these things called tornado fries, and it's basically like – this huge curly fry, on a stick? God, we should find a place that sells those…"

Later that night, after most everyone is gone, Stiles is in his room – his new room, AKA: the guest room of the McCall house. Melissa told him he could paint the walls if he wanted, but the cool, light yellow shade is nice, it's different, doesn't remind him much of anything. And, anyway, as much as he appreciates the gesture, this isn't home, it will never be home. As of two weeks ago, he no longer has a home.

He also no longer has parents, but he's trying not to focus on that part.

His breath comes in short and unsteady, and, yea, he's trying really hard not to think about that part. He stands, bounces on his feet, then goes for the two shopping bags discarded on the floor; he grabs both and dumps their contents onto the bed (a double with a crisp white duvet he'll probably ruin one way or another and so many throw pillows he just doesn't understand _where they all go_). For a moment, he just stares as the mass of plaid and solid-colored shirts, a few with graphics that probably look stupid but whatever, they're just clothes, then moves to his bedside table and fishes out the pair of scissors he keeps.

Five minutes later, all the tags are off, as well as those stupid little clear, white things that connect the tags to the clothes and either get buried in the fabric or go missing in the carpet, and Stiles isn't sure what to do now; it's too late to run a load of laundry, and he's itchy and fidgety and his head is beginning to hurt, as well as his muscles, because he needs to just – do something.

He needs to do something to distract himself from his life.

So he tugs his shirt off and replaces it with a new one, looks in the mirror hanging on the wall – not shabby. He tries another, and he probably could've gotten a bigger size in this one, whoops, because it grabs onto his not-really-there abs and clings to the curve of his spine and the contours of his, again, not-really-there biceps. After wrinkling his nose and making a few unattractive faces at himself, he turns back to the mass on his bed, then yanks a shirt on top of this one, then another, and another, until he's literally ninety-percent shirt and ten-percent Stiles, and he can't really bend his arms the right way. Looking in the mirror, he smirks, laughs in his head, and considers calling for Scott.

The thought passes though, because calling to Scott means more Scott-company, which is, admittedly, driving him up the wall. Not that he's getting tired of Scott, just that… everyone is very careful around him now, mindful of what they say, and they listen to him in a way they never did before. They also haven't mentioned the supernatural very much, haven't asked him to research a single thing, and act like there's no difference, like he wouldn't notice.

Yea, well, he has. Like, he's not sure what to do with his time anymore, and he should probably say that he's not a fucking daisy, that shit happens and that – and that he's not scared, to face the creatures of the night and stuff, but he can't find the right words, at all. Maybe he should make some speech about revenge or something, maybe they'll believe him then. Except, the anger card doesn't work either, because this is the truth: although he is angry, sometimes anyway, he's mostly scared. He's so scared, he doesn't turn the lights off in his room when he goes to sleep – if he does go to sleep – and he constantly finds himself holding his breath when he turns corners and when the house is too quiet, and even hanging out with the pack, seeing their eyes flash occasionally, the way their claws appear at random intervals, listening to the low growls and watching their inhuman abilities… It all puts him on edge, and he knows it shouldn't. He knows that, of everyone, the pack is on his side, and yet there it is, that shiver that goes down his spine, makes his hands curl and his teeth grit, and Stiles can't pretend he doesn't notice the way they glance at him when they smell his fear and his anxiety, maybe even his pain, but they don't say anything, and he pretends that he can somehow, for once, not notice.

Teeth dig into the inside of his cheek, and he spins around once, reaching up and rubbing at the back of his neck; the motion is awkward, limited by the millions of shirts he has on, so he settles for a huff and turns around, once, slowly, then repeats the motion as fast he can, again and again, arms thrown out, until eventually he slams into the wall, breathless and dizzy as fuck.

"Shit," he whispers, sweat beading on his forehead, breath coming in quiet gasps, tilting his head up and squeezing his eyes shut, then opening them really wide and watching the world spin.

The universe shifts to and fro, and even though he's leaning against the wall, his feet still stumble around to match the maneuvering of the world – the world that, at some point, becomes the entirety of Derek's face.

Stiles blinks several times, before swallowing. "Uhm, hey," he says eventually to fill the gap of silence, because he can't _not _fill the void. "This must look really weird to you, am I right? I was just trying on my all my new clothes – they look good, yea? I mean, I'm pretty sure I just stretched out most of them, and the base layer is definitely going to have pit stains, but…" He swallows again, hard, stares at Derek, watches the way one of his eyebrows hitches up his face. "Your eyebrows are really expressive. Why are you here? Can I help you with anything? Because I'm totally open for business; witches, warlocks, goblins or ghouls? Just, like, ask me, really… I'm… I'm…" Another gulp, and why is Derek not fucking saying anything (or, really, why is he surprised that Derek isn't saying anything)? "I'm really woozy, can you just, like, give me a second? Or a minute? Maybe an hour…" It's suddenly a lot harder to breathe – wow, okay, layering up and then doing pseudo-exercise wasn't his best idea ever, decidedly.

"I heard a thud," is all Derek offers, and Stiles nods mutely, eyes shut as he tries to ground himself, which includes not vomiting all over Derek's shoes, or Melissa's carpet. Or vomiting at all, ideally. After a beat, he feels a tug on his clothes and pulls his eyes into slits, intoning, "Uhhhh–"

Derek shoots him a constipated look. "You're overheating, Stiles," he says, equal parts exasperated and frustrated, and Stiles nods mutely, tries to lift his arms as best he can as Derek peels away one layer after another.

The last time they were this close, Stiles was screaming and clawing, his voice hoarse and pitchy with smoke and panic, and Derek had one arm looped around his waist and the other across his chest, holding Stiles back as his house went up in flame, as his father…

He swallows thickly, loudly, and he feels Derek hesitate. The werewolf sighs, softly, breath rushing against Stiles' neck, and stupidly, Stiles feels himself flush – which is probably just because, yea, he's really hot, but he's beginning to feel better already. Derek was right; he was overheating.

Stiles opens his eyes and looks at the alpha; at some point, he reached Derek's height, which didn't occur to him until now. It takes him by surprise, but not so much as the fact that Derek's looking right back at him, mouth pursed in that frowny-sort of way that Stiles is convinced is his default face. Either way, Stiles bites at his lip, then mumbles, "I think I got it from here, thanks."

Derek takes an automatic step back, looks toward the window, back to Stiles, then turns as Stiles pulls off the last remaining shirts. The last one is pasted to his skin and he hisses and quickly strips, reaching for his old t-shirt and yanking it on. "Sorry 'bout that, I just got really – uhm, like, fidgety and I had to do something, which seems really weird, and yea, okay, I guess it was, but I didn't try them on in the store and I figured, why not and, hey, why are you still here anyway? I thought you were leaving with Boyd?" Stiles takes another deep breath and shoves his hands into his pockets, nudging the clump of shirts on the floor off to the side nervously.

Why is he nervous? Ugh. It's Derek – he's _always _nervous around Derek, because the guy has a nasty tendency to slam Stiles into things and get in his face. Granted, he hasn't done anything like that since… but still. It's a logical anxiety that sidles into his veins, except it's mixed with an edge of anticipation that makes his brows pinch.

"I was, but like I said – I heard a thud, and thought maybe you needed… help."

"Oh. Well, you were… very helpful."

Derek blinks, then nods, and Stiles imitates both motions, before sighing, reaching up to scrub at his face.

He wants to ask. He wants to ask Derek what it's like, if it gets better, how he managed it, how he held on, but he doesn't want to break down, especially not in front of Derek. Because Derek is like Dad, held in all the emotion and shoved it down, deep, deep inside; Stiles hasn't seen him break down a single time, not really, and yea, again, totally unhealthy but… God, he doesn't know. He just doesn't know anymore, isn't sure how to feel or what to feel, and how to deal with any of it.

And honestly, if he lets any of it out, then it'll be like a floodgate, he knows it.

Fuck.

Stiles glances across at Derek and is surprised, yet again, when the werewolf is watching him carefully, expression this strange mixture that Stiles isn't quite familiar with. It makes his skin prick, and he clears his throat, says, "I, uhm, I need to get to bed, Derek. But thanks. For the – the uh… help. I think I was probably stuck, actually, so you totally just saved me from Scott taking like, fifty pictures and posting them all over Facebook. And the heat exhaustion thing, too…"

Derek doesn't say anything, doesn't even move, just looks down at his feet and shifts his weight, before glancing back up. "Sure."

They stand there for fifteen more seconds (Stiles counts), before Derek adds, "Try to actually get some sleep tonight, okay?"

Stiles smirks and nods, watches as Derek leaves.

It doesn't occur to him until he's brushing his teeth why Derek would say something like that; how he would even know that Stiles hasn't been sleeping well at all.


	2. Chapter 2

_thanks so much for the support, guys! not sure how this one will go; i'm still trying to find my way through this, and it feels like this is more a series of drabbles than anything, but i hope you like it! i apologize in advance for any typos; i went through this once, but i'll go through later tomorrow and try to get out the ones i miss._

_teen wolf isn't mine**!**_

"Dude, unless you're going to get me a sandwich, _move._"

Stiles blinks and swivels his head, mouth hanging open, eyes wide, abruptly alert that, yes, he is still breathing and the world is still functioning and he's probably been standing in front of the open fridge for quite a while, because once he comes to, he shivers. It takes him another moment to fully recover, but once he does, he takes a step backward and reaches up to rub the back of his neck. "Oh, s-sorry… Jackson. Musta blanked or something."

Jackson twists his face into a look that's both judgmental and skeptical, something that's not at all nice, and usually Stiles would scoff and walk off at that point, but Jackson is the only one who treats him like nothing has happened. Sure, that still means he's sassy and bitchy, and maybe that even says something about Jackson, because Stiles' _dad just died in a fucking fire, _but whatever, Stiles is willing to deal with it.

So rather than turning tail and returning to the living room or even his bedroom, Stiles leans against the counter in front of the sink and watches the other remove condiments and lunch meat and cheese. Jackson doesn't seem to notice him, probably too preoccupied in his analysis of the calories in Miracle Whip versus generic brand mayonnaise, and Stiles doesn't try to fill in the space. Instead, he bites at his lip and fidgets with his fingers, knotting them and unknotting them, pulling at them until his knuckles pop and it kinda hurts, but not really.

He doesn't remember what he'd been looking for – had probably just been mindlessly shifting through snack options, mostly bored and slightly hungry – but somewhere between wondering how a crunchy-peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich would taste with cheddar chips and chocolate stuck in between, his thoughts stumbled into a memory he hadn't recalled in a really long time.

It was a stupid one, really, just a camping expedition a few summers ago, where his dad had taken Scott and him up into the wilderness for five days; it'd been a full day's hike before they set up camp and both boys had been exhausted, but Dad had been rejuvenated, stood at the edge of a cliff near their camping site, hands on hips, looking down into a ravine, looking peaceful and complete, looking – young. Stiles hadn't said anything, just smiled to himself, and then Scott had shoved him and, even though their muscles were sore as hell and their movements were lethargic at best, they played tag. Later that night, he remembers the way Dad had groaned when Stiles pulled out three zip-lock baggies, each filled with pre-made salad.

It seems almost painfully cliché to say that a head of lettuce prompted the memory, so Stiles refuses to think that, because it seems kinda horrible to say that lettuce is what reminds him of his father; instead, he figures it just appeared in his head, like many things often do. It also occurs to him that Dad is just a series of memories now; he's a tombstone in a cemetery with a cluster of fresh-but-dying flowers on top, tucked in beside his mother, sure, but eventually, he'll just be another face in a dusty photo, he'll be just the essence of a person, and then less than that.

Stiles' throat is abruptly tight and thick and he quietly clears it, looks over his shoulder and out the window, blinking back the tears that have slid into his eyes. He's not going to cry; he's not going to break down.

No, he's gotta be strong, he's gotta be the man his dad expected him to be, because being weak doesn't get you anywhere, and – and being weak is what got him here, today, standing in a kitchen that's familiar, but not in that this-is-home-and-I'll-eat-a-sandwich-in-my-damn-undies-if-I-want kinda way.

When the stinging lessens, he turns back around and Jackson is putting away the last of his supplies; on the counter, there's two plates, two sandwiches, one of which is cut into fours diagonally, which is Stiles' favorite way, because like – triangles are the best, and four triangles trump two, so.

Jackson shuts the fridge and glances over at him, then grabs a plate (the one that's cut in two plain halves) and leaves with only a grunt and grumble, which sounds vaguely like, "Not your woman."

* * *

"Hey, guys. What's up?"

Everyone stops talking, though literally, two seconds ago, they were hissing at each other, talking over each other, all of them distracted enough that no one bothered to do that quick quiet-down wave they do when they know he's coming down the hall (yes, he knows about that motion).

Stiles stands in the doorway, gaze slipping from one face to another – Erica and Boyd, who are both looking at the ground; Isaac, who just stares at him with wide eyes and pursed lips; Jackson, who's busy examining his nails; Lydia, who looks guilty as hell; Scott, who looks a little panicked, a little lost, a little pale and torn and overall shitty; and then there's Derek, who's nostrils are flared just a bit, jaw taut.

No one answers.

He rolls his eyes and snorts, gestures vaguely toward them, "Whatever – Lydia gets to know all about your werewolf rendezvous and I can't? _I've been in this as long as Scott! _I've – I've saved _all _of your asses at least once. Especially yours, Derek!"

He's tired of this, he's tired of the secrets, he's tired of being treated like a delicate flower.

So maybe he's not exactly the same, as much as he tries to be, but he's not going to get better unless they let him.

"I – we… We really weren't talking about… much, Stiles, I promise!" Scott says, perking up slightly, but Stiles can tell he's lying.

"Yea? Why do you guys even come over here if you don't want me to hear about the shit that's going on? I may not be part of the pack, but I'm not fucking deaf." He scowls, then shakes his head, takes a rough step backward, then marches forward and drops into the empty seat beside Derek (it's the only one open, he totally wouldn't sit there otherwise, because Derek smells like leather and dust and woodchips and forest and soap and sweat, and because Derek is, well, _Derek_). He crosses his arms tightly across his chests and, between gritted teeth, growls, "Carry on."

Everyone looks uncomfortable, shifts, glance at least once toward Derek, then to him, then to Derek.

"That's fucking fascinating!" Stiles says, voice growing in pitch so that it cracks a little; he sounds like he's approaching hysteria, but he's totally not – he's got this under control.

He's not going to break down, and he's not going to cry, but he can be pissed. So maybe the anger card doesn't work very well, but this is different; this doesn't have anything to do with his dad. No, it does, because everything has to do with Dad now, but still – the pack used to meet at the Hale house, maybe occasionally at Scott's because Mrs. McCall makes the best lasagna, but now they're over all the time.

All. The. Time.

And they just – they just expect Stiles to slap his hands over his ears and drown out their plans? They expect Stiles to ignore them? It's like they're _taunting _him, just highlighting yet another thing he can't have anymore; another reason he's weak and human and useless.

He didn't even realize he started breathing faster, quick and shallow and heavy, angrily, until Scott reaches out and squeezes his knee.

"Stiles, hey – it's… it's okay, man."

"Fuck you, Scott. Fuck all of you. I'm _fine, _but you guys are making it so much – so much _worse,_" he hisses, his voice cracking horribly on the last word, shaking, and Stiles swears he's not close to crying, even though it sounds like it. Even though it feels like it.

He's on his feet suddenly, hauling himself out of the room and out the door and onto the porch, where he rips at his hair, or tries to, because it's still really short and there's nothing to hold onto.

He doesn't cry.

He doesn't scream, although he wants to.

He just breathes the crisp air until his head clears, and then he flexes his hands into his fist, relaxes them, repeats.

No one comes out after him, no one asks him to come in, no one apologizes, no one does anything.

* * *

A handful of days later, Stiles drives to the Hale house. Part of him thinks the pack has made the move to Scott's house because they don't want Stiles to have to see the charred remains of Derek's place, the part of him that isn't bitter and pissed off and frustrated.

He knows Derek must have heard him, but the alpha doesn't come out, so Stiles just jumps out and slams the door shut and kicks at a few rocks before mounting the porch and pushing his way inside. The past few weeks, Derek has been remodeling; it's a slow process, and Stiles isn't sure if it's because Derek doesn't have the time or even the experience, or if it's because he's reluctant to rebuild, if he's reluctant to alter the memories of his childhood home and hell house with fresh coats of paint and new wood floors and curtains that aren't in tattered and smoke-ruined.

Stiles looks around for a little – there really isn't much to look at, really – and he doesn't feel any sort of panic grip his chest; he sees the smoke-stained walls, untouched by Derek's hammer, and he doesn't feel anything except pity and sadness, like he always did. When the panic attack doesn't come, when he proves to himself that's he not afraid of some stupid house, just because it was consumed by flame just like his own, he climbs up the stairs, where he knows Derek's bedroom is.

Yet another thing that should be bothersome, because why does he know where's Derek bedroom is? But whatever; there's two rooms in the whole house that are furnished – the kitchen, which has new cabinets and blue paint and a few stools and empty light sockets where Derek has yet to place fixtures, and Derek's bedroom, which is just a bed and a way-too-comfy leather chair that Stiles found at the thrift store a while ago.

The door is half-open when he gets there, so he just peeks in, brow furrowing. At this point, he'd expect Derek to either yell at him or slam him into something, but none of that has happened, and what's that weird noise?

It takes Stiles another thirty seconds before he realizes it's Derek, breathing/lightly snoring, sprawled out across his mattress, shirt riding up and legs tangled in sheets, blankets cast off him.

It takes another minute for Stiles to catch his breath, and then five more before his heart stops pounding.

It's not because Derek's slack face, lips parted with drool dotting one side of his mouth, looks so incredibly innocent and vulnerable, but because – because Derek sleeps?

Wow, what a stupid thought; of course Derek sleeps. But the fact that he hasn't heard Stiles, hasn't heard Stiles and roughed him up, is kinda mind-blowing.

He stands around for a few more minutes, before sighing; he isn't sure why he does it, but he toes off his shoes and slips inside, crosses to the way-too-comfy leather chair and eases himself into it, legs tucked underneath him. He's the one who bought it, so he should have every right to sit in it, right?

Yea, totally.

Internally, he rolls his eyes to himself, but it doesn't stop him from doing anything; no, instead, he relaxes (for once, he really relaxes, eases back into the leather and bites at his lip and lets the cracked leather and that Derek-smell soothe him). Eyes half-lidded, he notices the way Derek is still wearing stocks, and there's a hole where his big toe is poking out; it makes his mouth lift partially, and he sighs, softly, nuzzles into the chair.

He doesn't go to sleep, his eyes just slip mostly shut, and he watches the even way Derek's chest rises, steady and slow and comforting, an anchor that fends off the usual thoughts that come to mind when he's alone.

For once, he isn't scared, he isn't thinking much about Dad, or the fire, or what he could have done to stop it.

For once, he's just calm, just _there_.

It's been less than a month since the fire, but already he's forgotten what it feels like to be at peace, even if only temporarily.


	3. Chapter 3

_i played with POV in this one - hopefully, it's pretty obvious who's is speaking and whatnot. otherwise, thanks for the support and i hope y'all enjoy!_

_teen wolf isn't mine**.**_

Derek wakes up with a soft groan, toes scrunching, brows furrowing before his eyes flutter open. For a moment, he just stares at the ceiling, watches the way the ceiling fall whirls around again and again, stirring the air – hold on.

As soon as the scent hits him, he sits up, inhaling deeply, gaze flashing around the room until he spots the kid, Stiles, curled up on the leather chair, neck crooked at an awkward angle, lips pursed into a frown and brows pinched, small twitches occasionally causing his expression to contort even more.

For a whole moment, Derek just stares, then the tension drains out of his body and he reaches up to tousle his hair; sleep has modified the gel in his hair, making the strands protrude in odd directions. He doesn't care though, just scratches at his scalp, then blows out a soft breath and glances from the clock on the wall (six o'clock in the morning) to the boy not even three feet from him.

How could he not have heard him? Stiles isn't exactly quiet.

Maybe he's slipping, getting too comfortable. The thought makes him crinkle his nose and shake it away, because maybe he's gotten used to this pattern in his life, but he isn't – it's not like it used to be. He doesn't go to sleep, skeptical that nothing will creep into his room and attack him (he's excluding Stiles from his concerns); he doesn't even fall asleep easily anymore. Relaxation is a thing of the past, a fond, painful memory, like all the other things in his life.

Being honest with himself, he misses it; he misses being able to flop down on the couch and flip on the TV, misses debating politics with Laura (she could be such a goddamn radical sometimes, it drove him _crazy_), misses eating banana-boat s'mores at one o'clock in the morning with his sister, sometimes because one of them was down or had had a nightmare, sometimes without any reason. He misses sleeping in until noon and laughing until his stomach hurts; he misses his mother's hugs, and the smell of his father's coffee, jet black and piping hot.

These aren't things Derek often lets himself think about though, and he pushes the onslaught of memories away, huffing quietly as he crawls out of bed. A quick stretch, back popping, then he considers Stiles from across the room.

The kid whimpers slightly, sighs, twitches yet again, and Derek isn't sure when he decides, but he crosses the room in five strides and, after gulping, eases his arms around Stiles, picking up the boy and transporting him to the bed, rearranging his limbs so he looks relatively comfortable. He quickly tucks the blankets around the other, then straightens, scratches the side of his face, looks around, unsure what to do – wait until he wakes up? Or maybe he should just wake him up already? That's weird though, because he totally just moved Stiles and… fuck, what if the kid remembers?

He's asleep, why would he remember?

Derek scowls at his own paranoia and, after waiting another minute until he's satisfied that Stiles is relatively comfy – he rolls onto his side and pulls his knees up to his chest, curves in on himself, and Derek can already see a trail of drool on his pillow – he leaves without another word.

Climbing down the stairs, he tries not to think about how much he wants to turn around and drop into that damn leather chair, how much he wants to go back to Stiles and ease the creases of his forehead, want to pull him out of the fetal position and just – make it better.

He isn't sure what to do with this sudden compulsion to reach out, get close, to soothe and comfort. Christ, he wasn't ever good at it anyway; he remembers the time when Laura dated some dirt bag after the fire, how she came home one day in tears and wrapped Derek up in a hug. Of course he'd hugged her back, hands patting at her hair and her back, but it'd been awkward; it hadn't been like Mom's hugs, hadn't been easy and comforting. What makes him think that after years of not even _touching _other people he's any better?

No. Stiles probably doesn't even want to be touched, let alone by someone like Derek.

Why the kid even came to his house, he doesn't know; maybe he got in a fight with Scott, but even then – he could easily find some other place to pass out at. Lydia's house, or maybe Boyd's, or, like, a dumpster.

Maybe he shouldn't even be worried about _why _Stiles came; maybe he should be more concerned that he didn't notice and, frankly, he doesn't care.

Scratch that – he does care. But right now, he wants to pretend he doesn't.

* * *

Stiles awakes to a headache and sweaty clothes and a spicy-familiar sort of smell and hammering. His eyes don't open for a few minutes; instead, he curls closer to himself, grunting, huffing, willing himself to fall back to sleep, but he can already feel consciousness slipping back into his bones, and eventually, he can't ignore that he's awake and probably needs to get up.

Also, where the fuck is he?

That's the sort of thought that rockets him upright, legs kicking outward and getting entangled in sheets. His head swivels and he squints left and right, before understanding gropes its way into his brain and – oh. _Oh. Ohhh._

Oh, shit.

Oh, wait.

Why is he in a bed?

Why is he at Derek's?

Better yet, why is he in Derek's bed?

Derek's ultra comfy bed, that's twice as comfy as the way-too-comfy leather chair and smells surprisingly good (or unsurprisingly good, considering he already knows that Derek smells nice)…

Stiles sighs, reaches up and scrubs at his face, then stares toward the door, then the window, then down at his knees, two bumps underneath the bed sheets. As soon as the surprise of waking up in a strange place resides (maybe _strange _is an understatement, considering he's referencing Derek here), a weight replaces it, settling hard on his shoulder and pushing down, making it hard to breathe, clogging his head.

Again, he brings his hands to his face, but this time it's to pull at his hair, then clap them over his ears and groan.

The pounding in his head seems less like a headache and more like a migraine, and the hammering that he thought was coming from downstairs has stopped, which either means his head is _seriously _throbbing, or Derek is working.

Stiles doesn't want to think about Derek right now, because that's one huge puzzle it's too early to consider. Like, why is he here? More specifically, in this bed? He always thought Derek was a very territorial person, yet here Stiles is, violating his bed sheets (not like _that, _mind you).

God, what if Stiles crawled into bed while Derek was in it?

The thought stops him in his tracks, and he swallows hard before scrambling out of bed; he barely gets his feet underneath him when he hits the edge, and then he hastily makes for the door, shoving his feet in his shoes and stumbling to the stairwell, clumsily jumping down the steps, putting his weight on the banister and swinging forward.

When he reaches the bottom, he catches Derek staring at him from the living room; sweat stains part of his shirt, making it cling to his too-crazy-to-be-real muscles, and there's a tool belt slung low on his hips. A nail is sticking out between his lips, and he still has a hammer in his hand (there's his answer – although his head feels like it's about to split in two, at least it's not bad enough to seem like a construction zone), and Stiles blinks owlishly at him, then swallows dryly and, for whatever reason, looks over his shoulder.

Like Derek, who suddenly looks incredibly and inexplicably (or really, _totally _explicitly) appealing, is looking at someone other than Stiles.

It's a move from a chick flick, where the protagonist doesn't think she's being checked out.

Except this time, Stiles – who apparently is a teen heroine now – actually isn't being checked out and, yup, it's definitely disappointing.

Wait… what?

He shuts his eyes and rubs at his temples, says, "I – I, uh, hi, Derek. I… I… really don't know why I'm at your house. Sorry."

There's a soft noise that almost sounds like a chuckle but probably isn't, probably is just the wind rustling through the exposed bones of the house, or maybe ghosts (that's a horrible thought for several reasons). It's enough that Stiles looks up though, brows lifting, and Derek is making a weird face at him that Stiles can't decipher, surprisingly; he's well-versed in Derek-face-speak, knows what different degrees of eyebrow raises and furrows mean, can translate the intensity of his frown, and even has a theory about his facial hair. The last one he made up when he was drunk, so it doesn't really count, but still.

"Leaving?"

Stiles glances toward the door, back to Derek, the door, Derek, door, Derek, and shuffles closer to the latter slowly, curiously. "Planning on it, yea, I guess… What time is it, anyway?"

"Almost ten."

"Oh, man. Dad's probably wonderi–"

There's a minute-long pause, sixty seconds of no breathing or blinking or moving, and then Stiles forces himself to grate out, voice an octave higher, "I mean – Melis-Melissa is probably… she's probably, y'know, wor…" His voice cracks and he tips his head back and looks upward, and Derek doesn't even bothering trying to fill in, doesn't try to make it better, doesn't do anything.

Stiles hates him for it, for letting the moment sink in, simmer and burn, burn until it's fucking painful to think what just came out of his mouth, and what that means, what it reminds him of - not that he can forget what happened, not like it isn't always constantly pressing down on him, against him, but...

"I'm really tired," he eventually whisper-breathes, a sigh of a remark, a confession. He closes his eyes and tries to stop thinking, focuses on the hard pain in his skull and the sour taste in his mouth from the bile that magically came up his throat when he said that three-letter word.

_Dad. _

He tries to breathe evenly, tries to keep himself from trembling, tries to keep himself calm and collected and together. For the most part, he succeeds - or tells himself he does at least.

* * *

As soon as Stiles slips up, mixes three weeks ago with today, Derek tenses. It's an oh-shit moment that makes him cold and alert, plays on his nerves, making him anxious and twitchy. He stares at Stiles as Stiles stares back at him, both too shocked to do anything, to react, and neither breathes, neither moves. The world is frozen for a delayed moment, and then it passes and Stiles fumbles with words, tries to babble, but it doesn't work, it doesn't fix the damage that's been down.

And really, it's not what Stiles says that's the worse; it's watching the kid grow paler and paler by the second, watching the way his body tenses and coils and shrinks in on itself, the way his eyes are suddenly brighter, the way his fingers start trembling and his heart starts palpitating and the sweat begins to pool in his palms and along the back of his neck.

Derek still hasn't moved, and he should – he knows he should; he should be crossing the room and squeezing the kid's shoulder, or hugging him or something, _anything, _but his feet are like lead weights, are like anvils, and maybe Derek can fight off all sorts of fairytale creatures, but he's no match against emotions.

Fuck, he's been fighting with his demons for going on ten years, and there hasn't been a day that he's won.

It makes his jaw tighten, shame burning hot in his belly, and he grits his teeth, hates himself for not being a man, for not sucking it up and doing what needs to be done – for not comforting the poor kid, for not telling him that _he gets it. He really fucking does. _

Rather, he stands there, stupid and silent.

And then Stiles delivers the final blow that makes him flinch, three words expelled softly, exhausted and pained and raw: _I'm really tired._

Derek's fingers clench into fists and he looks away, doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to remember where he was, ten years ago, trying to cope with the loss of his family. Christ, he doesn't want to think about two years, when he lost Laura. He just – he doesn't want to _think, _period, doesn't want to reminisce or miss what is no longer his.

He wants to move on, and sometimes, he thinks he can, but here is Stiles, going through hell, and of all the people – of all the people in the world, the kid crawls into his bedroom and into his bed and worms into his head and begins cracking bones without even knowing, ripping open wounds Derek had thought were healed, were calloused, were _safe_. He comes into Derek's house and starts spewing emotion and reality, and it's not like Derek can ask him to leave.

Except Stiles looks at him after a few minutes, and the skin around is eyes is reddening from unshed tears and his lips are starting to swell from being bitten and abused, and without asking, without a single word, Stiles just nods and walks out of the house.

Honestly, Derek isn't sure who is more defeated, who is more broken of the two of them.


	4. Chapter 4

_hope y'all enjoy. _

_teen wolf isn't mine**!**_

He quit lacrosse after the fire. There were only a few games left anyway, he told Scott, shrugging it off when his best friend cornered him and started waving his hands around indignantly. What was the point? He got to play first line, like, once – and, hey, that was really cool, mostly because he actually scored, and got Lydia's attention – but… but really, it's not like that's going to happen again. Might as well end on a high note, right?

What he doesn't say is that the game just reminds him of his father's support; of all the hugs, the shoulder claps and squeezes, the _good job, kid_'s, of all the times he showed up, even though Stiles was seated firmly on the bench.

He's pretty sure Scott knows why he quit, too, knows the _real _reason, but Scott's too good of a guy, too good of a best friend to bring it up. Instead, he sighs, he nods, and he lets it go.

The first few days after the fire, Stiles had been quiet, often sat on the back porch of the McCall house, no coat or gloves or hat; it was crisp, but he didn't feel the cool touch of the air, and if he shivered, it wasn't because he caught a chill. The first few days after the fire, he was numb.

Sometimes, he wishes he still was.

But the feelings hit the fourth day after, while he stood in the shower, letting the water rain down upon him, coursing over his shoulder blades and curving along his spine. One minute, he'd been fine – or, at least, holding it together it seemed – and the next, he'd been gasping; the water was suddenly too hot, and the room was suddenly too small.

He didn't cry then though; he hardly has, really, maybe a tear here or there. Most of it had been while it'd been happening, while Derek had held him back. He can't remember what clouded his vision first – the smoke, or the tears, which of the two had made the house blur out of focus. Eventually, he'd stopped fighting, slumped against the body restraining him, eyes glassy, wet, face slack.

At first, he told himself it was a nightmare; he was going crazy, from the stress, from the anxiety, the panic, the werewolves. Being crazy, honestly, was better than the truth. But nightmares eventually get better; you wake up from them. You pinch yourself, and things improve; you laugh it off, and you're glad it's over. You fall back to sleep and you dream, again. Of puppies and girls and happy things – like flowers and chocolate.

But none of those happened.

Nothing got better; nothing improved.

And maybe it was a nightmare; maybe it _is _a nightmare, still, except it's his life now.

His life is now a nightmare. Monsters included.

So Stiles runs.

He runs around the neighborhood; he runs on the track; he runs in the woods. He runs, at every chance he gets.

It's not that he's running from something, just that, he needs to move. To channel the twitches and the panic and the feelings into something productive; this may or may not be the first time, ever, in his entire life, that he stopped procrastinating and actually _did _something.

He comes back, sweaty and shaky, mostly because he doesn't eat as much as he should for as much energy he uses (and, really, he's beginning to lose weight that he doesn't have) and Melissa reprimands him and starts stocking the fridge with coconut water, which she forces him to drink. He doesn't complain, because it's nice having someone care for him – or at least, pretend to. Pretend to like him, to love him, to tolerate him when he's moody and unresponsive.

But Stiles knows there will come a day when no one will be looking at him, looking after him, and because he's constantly being watched, he's not sure what he will do, when that moment arises. What opportunities he'll take, or what decisions he'll make.

Hopefully, they're good ones.

And, yea, maybe they will be – but it depends on your definition.

Because Stiles has been making good decision for himself in his fleeting moments of alone time ("alone" meaning when he's in his room by himself, but someone is tuned in to him, listening to his breathing and his heartbeat and his movements, watching him without seeing him, without eyes), but honestly, they really aren't good decisions at all. They're small things, small decisions; like the not eating, and the way, sometimes, he turns up the shower until the temperature is scalding, or down until it's freezing and makes his teeth chatter. How he draws his nails across his wrists and wonders what would happen if they were knives.

He isn't suicidal.

He isn't.

He doesn't want to die; he wants to live.

But right now, living has become very hard, very difficult, and Stiles is uncertain – he's uncertain of what really matters, of what he's doing with his life, of where he's going.

He's uncertain of the shadows in the corners of rooms and of the dead space underneath the bed. Even when he's running, he's uncertain of what's following him, or watching him, or planning to kill him – or his friends.

He's uncertain of what's his, if anything, anymore.

In some ways, he has no one.

He has no mom.

He has no dad.

He has no pictures.

He doesn't even have his favorite pair of socks anymore.

Hell, he doesn't even really have an identity, or even a life – or at least he has no tangible proof of either.

All these things pass through his head, but he doesn't say them. They make him twitch, they make his eyes flutter and his stomach flip-flop and his teeth clench until it hurts.

But he doesn't say anything.

Instead, he runs.

* * *

The pack is over again – really, it should be, when _isn't _the pack over?

Stiles doesn't have anything against the pack, as long as they include him – which they do, when they watch movies, or want food, or goof around and actually act like teenagers.

Tonight is one of those nights, where there are four popcorns bowls being passed around, with three bags of chips, and the promise of spaghetti in an hour. Melissa clanks around in the kitchen, and part of Stiles wants to help out – of everyone, he's probably the most qualified.

But working in the kitchen, helping make a meal, is still too close for him to manage, so he sits on the floor, propped up against the couch, hoarding a bag of Cheetos that he hasn't touched. Dance Dance Revolution is on the screen, and Erica and Lydia are doing this erotic thing with their hips and their arms and most of the guys are drooling on themselves – AKA, Jackson and, more subtly, Boyd and Isaac. Scott is texting, Stiles assumes, Allison, and Derek is altering between eyeing him and watching the girls with an indifferent face (Stiles figures it's less because Derek is actually interested in their hip-arm-sexy movements and more because Derek watches everyone dance, mostly because everyone looks like a fool and it's kinda amusing and what else is there to do).

The song ends and Stiles nudges a Cheeto into his mouth, sucking it against his cheek and holding it there, watching as the girls high-five, and Allison boasts because she scored higher and – yea. Good times.

He smiles when Lydia catches his eye, finishes the mushy Cheeto in his mouth, and then raises his eyebrows as he waits to see who'll take the next turn.

"Stiles – why don't you go?"

"Wh-_what?!"_ he sputters, half-coughing as his head swivels to look at Jackson, who is smug and intent. Lydia is on his lap, grinning mischievously at him, and Stiles isn't sure who instigated this but – no.

No.

"Oh my god, yes!" Scott exclaims, laughing, "_Do it, _bro, c'mon!"

"Okay – uhm, I officially _hate_ you," Stiles hisses.

"I think Derek should do it with you," Boyd inserts.

The room goes quiet immediately.

"Yea, he's just been sitting there, watching all of us. The both of you should do it, together," Isaac adds, nodding.

If possible, it gets more silent. In a far, far off place, there are crickets chirping – Stiles can't hear them, but he's sure of it. That's how silent it is.

Stiles stares at Boyd, then Isaac, then slowly looks at Derek, who is a mixture of pissed and surprised and something else Stiles can't name. Probably embarrassment or something.

They haven't spoken since Stiles' slip up; that may have to do with the fact that there have always been other people in the room, but Stiles feels like that's an intentional thing, somehow.

"I – I think that's a really bad idea," he ventures, slowly.

Derek glances at him, then the screen, before he swallows and stands, stretches. "Fine."

Stiles' jaw drops and he leans his head back, and Lydia starts laughing and most everyone else is grinning as Derek glances over his shoulder at Stiles and _smirks _and – "Fuck you," Stiles grumbles as he climbs to his feet (Isaac snatches the bag of Cheetos from his lap before they can fall and make a mess on the floor).

He falls into place alongside Derek and Scott scrambles to grab the remote before Stiles can, flipping through the list until he finally selects _I Want Candy_.

Stiles sighs and rubs at his face, and Derek is quiet; it's almost frightening how much they've reversed roles – where Stiles should be the one pumped, or at least resigned to his doom, he is acting like Derek, throwing a tantrum with his long-suffering sighs.

The music starts up and Stiles looks over at Derek and mutters (although everyone else can still hear them, goddamn werewolf ears), "Are you serious right now?"

Derek just shrugs and his face settles back into it an apathetic, if not focused expression. Stiles never thought he'd see the day that the alpha would be playing Dance Dance Revolution, but he thought he'd never see a lot days; apparently, his life is now a series of let's-take-Stiles-off-guard-every-fucking-second moments.

Their avatars begin moving, and slowly, they do, too; Stiles is tense and awkward, and Derek is the same, too, which comforts him a little. The pack is snickering and hooting as they hip thrust and Stiles would be lying if he didn't use his peripheral vision to watch that particular move. They come close to hitting each other, arms darting out and flailing as they struggle to keep up, lagging behind a few seconds to mimic the moves, and it's all incredibly stupid – by the time the song ends, Stiles doesn't feel any better, is still just as distracted as he was before, and Derek's brows are more furrowed then they were before they started, but apparently the pack is happy and that's all that matters.

Stiles wins their round and bows at the applause he receives, then drops onto the couch as Isaac elbows his way up front with Jackson. He pulls his knees up to his chest and hugs them, watches the two boys start gyrating to a sexual song – they're both kinda bad at it, but it's rather alluring, the way their shirts hitch, revealing lean muscle and trials of hair and hipbones. Lydia wiggles in beside him and throws an arm around his shoulders and breathes, "Cheer up."

"I'm fine," he says automatically, under his breath.

She smiles and squeezes his shoulder. "Sure."

"Really. I am."

"I believe you. You _will _be fine, Stiles, you're strong. You're a fighter. But do _you _believe that?"

He exhales, shuts his eyes against the tempting image in front of him (he has so much on his brain he doesn't even try to unravel that, is just reminded of what Derek looked like, curled up in his bed, peaceful and warm, and how very… _safe_ he felt after seeing him). Still, he gulps, whispers, "I don't know."

Lydia sighs, softly, breath tickling his neck (where he once would have shuddered though, he doesn't now), and leans her head against his shoulder. "It's okay to not know," she eventually says.

Later, when the spaghetti is ready and they all fight their way into the kitchen and Melissa yells at them to get into a line before someone makes a mess, Derek is behind him and Stiles can feel the heat from his body and the weight of his breath.

"Good job," the alpha says.

"Yea?" he responds tiredly, rubbing at his arms, glancing over his shoulder at the man.

Derek nods, scans the kitchen for a second, then looks at him directly and adds, softly, a little nervously, "You know… you can come over whenever; it's okay."

Stiles stares, blinks, then purses his lips and faces forward again. "Yea, sure," he says, shrugging. "I'll try to do it when it's light outside, promise."

Erica glances back at him, brows lifting up her face, and smirks at Stiles when she hears – it makes him flush and scowl at the same time, and he groans, "Oh, _c'mon, _Erica, mind out of the gutter!" It's not until Derek growls that she turns around, still looking satisfied (and what is that, really?) but perhaps a little less smug.


	5. Chapter 5

_so, life got a little busy (these horrid things called finals came up); hopefully this makes up for it._

It has a lot to do with the way the sun paints the sky as it drops away; how it fills up every crack and crevice with its creamy, golden beams, then disappears completely, leaves the air cold and drab. It has a little to do with the fact that Stiles is and isn't alone, an odd mixture that makes perfect sense and alleviates the pressure in his chest, if only temporarily. He's not alone, not physically, and for once, he isn't expected to talk, to chatter and ramble, on and on and on, even though he can't – ever since the fire, his brain has been blank, and nothing seems quite as interesting. No, instead, he's still, not at all fidgety, and it works; for once, he's almost calm.

Isaac arrived an hour ago, sat down beside him, putting enough distance between them that Stiles didn't tense up, and the boy cleared his throat and then tipped his head back and slit his eyes, watched the sunset through his lashes. Stiles stared for a moment, then looked down at his lap, back up to the scene splayed before them.

It's just them on the roof, just the sound of their breath and the occasional car passing by and the subtle noise of the nearby forest. There is no pressure, for once, only silence – it's something that, in a way, Stiles has gotten used to.

Once upon a time, his life was filled with sound, with his own babbling voice, with the constant tick of an internal monologue, with distractions left and right, with a world that never stopped. Now, he lives in silence; the sounds still exist, of life and bustling people and breathing, but it doesn't pin Stiles down, and no longer does he participate in it.

He smiles over dinner and adds a few words when necessary, but he's mostly quiet. It's not in a thoughtful sort of a manner, of reflection or insight; more, he's withdrawn, lost in a swirl of emotions and blank thoughts, as if his brain is a black hole where nothing happens or exists or – anything.

Perhaps it's the most telling thing that he isn't all right, speaks to how very wrong he feels.

How he _feels. _

They ask him all the time, how he is, does he feel okay, maybe he should try smiling more, and eventually it'll come naturally once more. But Stiles sees a reality no one acknowledges: the fact that, while maybe they do care about how he's holding up, they don't want to know the _truth. _They don't want to hear that his skin is almost always too hot, and the hair on the back of his neck prickles, and his heart thuds unevenly when he's alone.

They care, but they don't care; they prefer ignorance, and Stiles is okay with that – shit, he prefers ignorance. If he could hide from his own feelings, he would – and, yea, he does, but it's catching up to him, the pain, the fury, the terror…

Isaac doesn't pry, doesn't speak, and so they sit, in silence, and eventually, Stiles leans back until he's sprawled across the roof, the tiles digging uncomfortably into his back and his scalp, but it's okay. Discomfort is okay, pinpricks of pain and reality, reminders of where he is in that living instant.

The sun creeps down, each diminishing slice of light like a metaphor to Stiles, but he carefully ignores each thought that occurs to him, instead hones in on the crick in his neck and the sore muscles of his calves. He wiggles his toes, scrunches them in his shoes, and wonders if maybe he should go the thrift store and get a new pair (he's tired of Melissa paying for everything, trying to make up for everything he doesn't have, everything he's lost – the one thing he misses, that he _needs,_ can't be replaced, so what's the point?).

Only when night sets in, dark and only slightly oppressive, all-consuming and cool, does Isaac shift, say softly, "My dad was an asshole, but I miss him." There's a soft, breathy laugh, almost ironic, before he continues. "That's really fucked up, right? Considering what he did to me, but – he was the last thing I had. There's the pack now, I guess, but it's different… Everyone just assumes I don't care though; everyone assumes I just got over his death like – like it was nothing, if not _justice._"

A beat of silence, an exhale. Stiles starts trembling, squeezes his eyes shut.

"Maybe I shouldn't miss him; maybe I'm wrong _for _wishing he was still around, but it doesn't stop me from doing it."

Stiles swallows, waits, waits until it hurts. He tries to picture it, what it must be like – to lose your last bit of family, your last touch of reality, and to have people expect you to be unfazed. Does it makes Stiles weak, then, for wallowing in his father's death, for drawing out the grieving process? (And, fuck, he's not trying to – it's more that it's pinning him down, slowly crushing the breath out of him, the life out of him, and he can't move, he can't change it, he's just… He's stuck, he's helpless, useless, pointless. He's an embarrassment, really, an excuse.)

He doesn't realize he's been holding his breath until he sucks in a sharp one between his teeth and pinches his brows and Isaac is saying, "It's okay. You don't have to say anything, dude. I know you may not get it exactly, but… but you understand, better than the rest of them anyway. I know you do."

The werewolf stands at that point, almost silent except for the swish of his clothing as he climbs back in through the open window.

Stiles is left there, shaking, biting his lip. Waiting for something to change, to feel better for whatever reason, because Isaac believes in him in some shape or form. But he can't; he can't. He just lies there and it aches and the moon is obscured by clouds, and the air freezes his teeth and makes his lips go numb. And he can't do anything about it, because going inside means facing people and keeping up appearances.

He's bone-deep tired, and he's convinced everyone knows it. But they don't expect him to answer honestly when they see the dark bags under his eyes and the jitters in his fingers, because they don't want to know the truth.

From the beginning, Stiles figured he'd keep it all inside, lock and key, and he knew that was the worst possible thing to do – but he never thought everyone else would expect him to do the same thing; he never thought everyone would, in their own subtle way, pressure him into silence.

The fact stings, stupidly.

* * *

No one expected Stiles to become the target; in reality, no one is really sure if Stiles _was _the target, if the fire just happened, if it the witch simply caught a familiar scent and went with it, causing every ounce of destruction she could in her last moments.

She'd moved to Beacon Hills quietly, settled down, adapted to the community, became a part of it. A month later, she'd opened an indie-type bookstore with fresh herbal tea and gritty coffee, played undiscovered rock music over slightly staticky speakers, sold the type of books that often attracted Stiles to the shop – in between his time in the classroom, on the field and researching the supernatural, he appreciated a good, hearty book, sci-fi and fantasy and occasionally some silly romance novel that made him grin to himself.

Derek and the pack hadn't reacted much; occasionally, they nosed around, but she wasn't causing any disturbances. There were no missing pets, or persons, for that matter, no increase in crime or report of 'unusual activity.' Nothing.

Of course, until there was, but who knew she was the dormant type?

Three dead in the first weekend – a group of middle-aged men that'd set up camp for the week in the area, probably fishing, complaining about their wives, drinking beer and reminiscing. On top of that were the missing animals, a few strange fires constructed throughout the woods, never quite lit, just left to smolder for days. It caused enough fear in Beacon Hills that'd Mr. Stilinski had pulled Stiles aside one night, urging him to be careful – at that point, his dad had stopped questioning, had stopped ordering him around, had just gripped his shoulder, looked him in the eye, saying something along the lines of, "I know you're almost an adult Stiles, and I trust you, but promise me you'll be careful. If your gut tells you get the hell out of somewhere, do it."

After a little girl went missing, Derek had finally acted. They'd caught the witch in the middle of a ritual at dusk, the girl tied against a nearby tree, slumped against her restraints but still alive, heart fluttering unevenly. The witch must not have known about the wolves, hadn't been prepared for the ambush, but she dealt with it well, using her hostage for leverage (Derek had almost disregarded the little girl, but Scott held him back), distracting the pack, disorganizing them.

Eventually, it'd ended up being a fight between her and Derek on the outside of the forest. She'd gotten Derek with some sort of poison, almost knocking him out, but not before he'd left a deep gash in her stomach, the sort that made you feel your time tick by.

She'd scrambled off, and in the mean time, Stiles had finally caught up to Derek. The alpha was slumped against a trunk, hands gripping his thigh, teeth gritted, eyes screwed shut even as Stiles dropped to his knees beside him, asking unevenly, "What is it – Derek, it's not wolfsbane, is it?"

Stiles can still recall the way the tendons in Derek's neck stood out, how the man growled, "Give me a second, Stiles – _fuck."_

They'd sat there, both tense, for several minutes, before eventually Derek began to relax, huffing. Sweat beaded his brow, but as the seconds ticked by, he began to seem better, glanced over at Stiles, muttering, "Nasty potion or something, injected it right in the muscle – but nothing I can't handle."

Stiles had nodded, relieved, sitting back, hands gripping his knees; he'd wanted to reach out, squeeze Derek's shoulder or pat his back or maybe clench his hand – or something, comfort him, ease that pained expression off his face, but Derek didn't do well with touch. Derek didn't really do well with anything when it came to Stiles.

Somewhere in that pause, though, Stiles had tipped his head and sniffed the air, saying, "Hey – you smell that? Smells like…"

His memory gets glitchy in this area; one instant, Derek looked like shit, the next he was on his feet, the strength back in his muscles, the pain drained from his face. One instant, Stiles had been worrying about the alpha, the next he was screaming. He swears he'd been on his knees one second, and then was suddenly hundreds of yards away, on his feet, being restrained.

He swears he'd just smelled the smoke, but when they got there – too fast and too slow – the house was gone, already up in flames, the familiar police vehicle parked out front leaving Stiles feeling like he'd gotten his lungs ripped out.

Later, the pack theorizes it was her magic. Made the fire burn quick and hot; the firefighters didn't really even have a shot, didn't really even try. No one could survive something like that, not for that long.

But what if he'd managed it – he wasn't the sheriff for nothing. _What if._

The first time he'd demanded that, the pack had gotten quiet and Derek had looked him right in the eye, solemn, and Stiles knew – Stiles knew that, between the smoke and the flames and, just, everything, Derek had been able to catch his father's scent.

Apparently, there's a no-doubt difference between the living and the dead.

* * *

At some point, Stiles forgets he's still outside; he doesn't know how long it's been since Isaac left, or even if the pack is still downstairs. He doesn't even feel the cold, just feels the uncomfortable build-up in his stomach, the bile in his throat.

It's only when there's a shuffle behind him, the rustling of fabric, that Stiles pulls his eyes open and glances around.

The stars burn down from the sky, match the slight glow of Derek's gaze as the alpha looks down at him with a constipated expression on his face – brows pinched, mouth frowning. Typical Derek expression.

"Ever heard of hypothermia?" Derek huffs, settling down beside him without permission. Stiles grits his jaw as their knees bump, leans his body in the opposite direction, just a little, but enough for Derek to pause, though he doesn't move further away. Instead, Derek unfolds a blanket he brought, covering both of them with it, and once the heat begins to flare up, reawakening his body, Stiles starts shivering again.

"Thanks," he manages, glancing from the man back up to the sky.

Derek only grunts once, adjusts himself, and a silence falls that lasts for about five minutes.

What Stiles has noticed is that, since he's stopped talking, Derek has started. Not a lot, but – enough.

"They were wondering where you went."

"… Mmm?"

"Isaac said you needed some private time, and Scott was implying that meant you'd started – uhm… _enjoying yourself _again." Without even looking at him, Stiles can sense that Derek's nose is wrinkled, that his shoulders are tensed just a little as he tries to navigate his way through a conversation.

The thought makes him smirk briefly, and then he sighs, shrugs, pulls the blanket closer to him (he's probably hogging, but Derek's not complaining). Another pause, this time longer, before Stiles whispers, "I was just thinking about it… You – you're sure? 'Cause, like, Derek, that's – that's pretty big… I mean, you can't really… you can't actually tell if someone's de–" His voice started cracking a long time ago, but now it hitches, getting breathy and pitchy, and Derek cuts him off, quiet but firm.

"Trust me, Stiles."

He jams his eyes shut, nods once, digs his teeth into his lip.

It takes Derek a second, but after a beat, the alpha places his hand on Stiles' knee gently, squeezes gently, and it stays there. "Trust me," he echoes, ghosting the words beneath a breath.


	6. Chapter 6

He comes in, sweaty and tired, face flushed and lips raw, earbuds still blasting the latest indie band. The sun is just beginning to rise, and he keys open the door as quietly as possible, toeing off his shoes as he shuts it again. He avoids the creaky floorboards on his way to the stairwell, but he stops when he hears the initial sizzle of bacon being dropped into the skillet, the swift crack of eggs against the edge of a pan.

Two steps back and he peeks through the threshold into the kitchen, where Melissa is still in her bathrobe and slippers, eyes still heavy with sleep. He notes the coffee nearby, smells it, and when she glances his direction, she flashes him a grin; he lifts two fingers and waves, isn't sure whether he should take a shower (six miles today and he can smell the hard wall of sweat on his skin) or approach.

She decides for him, saying, "Morning, kid. How was it? Looks cold out there."

He swallows, nods, thumbs off his mp3 and crosses into the kitchen (he tries to slide on the wood floor, but his socks stick and he stumbles). "Uh – uh, yea, it was a little nippy but that wears off and it just feels good."

She nods to herself, a content, close-lipped smile on her lips as she adjusts the bacon, pokes at the eggs. "I bet – I'm glad you're doing this for yourself, Stiles." When the food looks to be progressing satisfactorily, she drops bread into the toaster and then turns back to him; unconsciously, he feels himself stiffen, his breath slowing, stilling. It's something in her face, the somberness of her eyes, the way her smile has softened so it's more a quirk of her mouth. "I know it's hard, Stiles, but you're alive and that's what counts. That's what John would want – he'd want to see you happy and alive."

Teeth dig into the inside of his cheek, eyes darting off to the side, back to her face, away again. "Yea," he half-breaths, half-croaks, starting to shift his weight from foot to foot, rolling his mp3 between his fingers.

He doesn't want to talk about this. He knows he should, can feel the cold, hard pressure in his chest, but he can't – he can't talk about it without breaking down, and he can't break down when everyone's looking, though he knows he's starting to crumble, knows everyone can tell. It's different though; it is. Holding it in, it's private, personal, and maybe it is self-destructive, but he can't deal with the gestures that come with open sobbing and tears. Keeping it to himself, they can all pretend he's at least half-okay, that he's able to half-live. No one has to know the reality, no one but him.

No one needs to know how he turns all the lights on in the house when everyone's gone; how he holds a baseball bat in a white-knuckled grip as he checks under the bed and inside the closet. No one needs to know he bought four night-lights two weeks ago, one for each outlet, that he plugs them in religiously and tucks them away as soon as he gets up so that no one finds out.

These are his secrets, _his, _and he's determined to keep them that way.

Melissa's still looking at him, and it seems like she's on the verge of walking over and hugging him, so Stiles takes three steps back and murmurs, "I really need to shower. Do you want me to get – to get Scott, uhm, up?"

She looks hurt, but she covers it up swiftly, nods once, turns back to the food. "Sure. Be quick about it, this is almost done and Scott might inhale it before you get a fighting chance." A snort follows her words, and she looks over at him wryly, brows lifted, and Stiles knows he should be laughing, that he _would _be laughing, because it's almost painful how true it is, but he just stares, then leaves.

* * *

"Come _on _guys – you have to be kidding me!" Derek shouts, exasperated and agitated. Sweat beads his brow, makes his wifebeater cling to him, and Stiles pretends not to notice as he sits in the background, watching the wolves weave around the basement of the Hale house. It's cold outside, and Stiles has an inkling that they're only inside because of him, but he doesn't mention it, just drags his fingers through the thin coating of dust, occasionally shuts his eyes and dozes off.

Most of the supplies for the remodel are placed in the basement, arranged strategically so they become an obstacle course of sorts; there are a few additional features, like a few dangling ropes, a plastic play-pool filled with tomato juice (Stiles' idea for motivation, before the fire; he once added spaghetti noodles to it, which only he and Scott laughed at), and some leather loops fastened to the ceiling, which act as handholds for swinging and jumping and whatnot. Paint buckets act as a makeshift tire run; a few sheets of plywood and drywall have been placed vertically so as to mimic walls – the sort of things that, collectively, aren't much of a challenge for werewolves, things that can be mastered easily, if not automatically, but get more complicated when Derek starts timing them with a stopwatch, demanding quicker paces. Then he splits them into teams, adding combat moves, and within the first hour, Stiles has to turn the fans on so no one passes out from the stench of sweat.

Before everything went to shit, Derek used to let Stiles run the course, or at least contribute – he used to think of ridiculous ways to distract the wolves (once, on April Fool's Day, he brought a dog whistle but quickly learned that was definitely _not okay_), brought air horns and water guns, would run screaming into the course in the middle of the fight to test reflexes (the first time he got half-punched-half-clawed by Jackson, but after both Derek and Scott got super pissed, and Stiles explained that he was supposed to be a _freaked-the-fuck-out _spectator, everyone seemed to be more wary of what exactly their fists and claws and feet were aimed at). Stupidly, he looked forward to practices; maybe he didn't want to be a werewolf, but he enjoyed channeling his drill-sergeant side.

Now, though, he isn't allowed within ten feet of the course. He doesn't really get why; if anything, he's in better shape – sure, he worked hard for lacrosse, but running has trimmed him even more, left him lean. His muscles are different, but arguably, more natural – he wasn't built bulky, couldn't really keep biceps and triceps and whatever-ceps. Now, his legs are tight, corded, stronger (because his upper-body strength is lacking, Stiles carefully ignores that bit).

Still, he isn't allowed near the course, has to sit in the corner and open windows and turn on fans and lights and just – watch.

It's like they think he's delicate, emotionally and physically.

He's not.

Before he can start working himself up though, Derek is scrubbing at his short hair, tousling his gelled-spikes, then huffs, "Okay, we're done for today. Let's finish with a run and give it a rest."

At first, the pack visibly perks, but then there's "run" and everyone groans or sighs or wrinkles their noses. Stiles, however, perks – just a little, not much; he doesn't expect to be invited. Everyone will probably just wolf-out and do their weird half-man-half-wolf run thing.

"How far we going?" Jackson asks, puffing slightly.

Derek considers, eyes rolling up to the ceiling, head tipping this way and that way as he contemplates. "Mm, I don't know – Stiles can decide that."

Stil – wait, what, him? He straightens, lips parting, eyes widening as he glances automatically to Scott, back to Derek.

The alpha's smirking at him, brows lifted. "Wanna set the pace?"

It takes him a beat, then he lurches to his feet unsteadily and nods, "Uh – yea, sure. I mean…" He swallows, gaze darting at all the expectant faces; he's supposed to say something funny right now, he can feel it, but nothing comes to mind automatically – his brain is cloudy, and it takes a few seconds. Eventually, he manages something, glances around anxiously before finally looking at Derek as he says, "I mean – if… if everyone can keep up with me."

There's a moment of silence, then Jackson snorts and Isaac and Scott both laugh and Erica grins, Boyd nods once. And Derek – Derek just looks at him; nothing really changes in his face. He doesn't grin, or smirk; he doesn't snort or laugh or anything. But it's almost like his chest puffs just a little bit, like his eyes shine a little brighter, and after a moment, he arches a brow and glances back at the pack.

"Challenge the fuck accepted," Jackson growls automatically, taking off his shirt.

Because Jackson always takes off his shirt and, yea, the guy has abs but after three miles, he isn't matching Stiles' pace as easily, beginning to trail.

Only Derek is beside him, their feet colliding with the ground at the same time (again, it occurs to him they're practically the same height), their breathing matched, one sharp breath after another.

It feels good.

For once, he feels – _good._

* * *

He's sprawled on the couch, staring at the TV, mouth slack, only half-listening to the 'current economic crisis' that CNN is discussing, when Scott comes in with a bowl of popcorn. Scott eyes Stiles for a beat, judging how comfortable his friend looks, then drops onto the carpet, positioning himself by Stiles' head. He shoves a handful of popcorn into his mouth, then lifts the bowl, proffering it to Stiles – it takes a moment before he sighs and takes a handful, dropping the contents onto his stomach and pushing one kernel between his lips at a time.

Scott twists and grabs the remote, flipping through channels until he finds some sports channel covering hockey; he adjusts the volume, then tosses the remote onto a chair and leans back. "Yesterday was fun."

Stiles shifts on the couch slightly, careful not to disturb the small distribution of popcorn on his belly. "You mean the run?"

"Mmmphffmm," comes the reply, accompanied by crunching. A beat, wherein Scott gulps the fresh handful of popcorn he just shoved in his mouth, and then he adds, "Derek seemed pleased."

"Yea?"

"Yea – I mean, he totally wanting to punish us because we aren't meeting his standards, but like… He seemed pleased. With you." Scott adds just enough weight to his voice that Stiles' is aware there's an implication there, just isn't certain what sort it is. It makes his brow furrow and he finishes the last bit of his popcorn before pushing himself up into a sitting position.

"Maybe it was because I could outrun your wolfy ass," he suggests slowly, softly, rubbing at his eyes.

Scott grins, biting at his lip for a second. After getting home from the run last night, Stiles seemed brighter than usually was, seemed more like himself, and Scott's trying to see how far he can push, how long the mood has lasted. And if it has anything to do with Derek.

Which he's beginning to think it does.

Because Stiles will physically disappear for a while (he disappears all the time emotionally, though no one ever says it out loud), and so will Derek, and then one or both of them will come back in and the tension won't be so unbearable. Scott isn't oblivious; he's noticed the way Derek's been carrying Stiles' scent more often than usual, and vice versa. He's noticed the little telltale signs.

And he isn't deaf; he hears Erica's comments to Boyd about the two – admittedly, he thought something was a little unusual between them, but it wasn't until he heard Erica that he really began to notice, began to suspect.

Being honest, he's not really sure how he feels about it.

Derek is… well, Derek; big and hulky and grumpy, but something's changing. No, e_verything's _changing, and Derek's just a part of it. A very important part of it, if he's relevant to Stiles.

As it though, when Stiles shoots back something playful, even if his tone is rough and slow, unpracticed and uncertain, Scott has to bite back a full fool-grin and instead elaborates, "Like – I mean, dude, did you notice how tired he was after that run? He pushed himself pretty hard, just to keep up."

Stiles pauses, still confused. "Yea, well, you guys were practicing even before the run. I wasn't doing a damn thing." The words off a little bitter, and he closes his eyes, swallows the rough edge of hurt – he isn't useless, goddamnit.

"_Still, _Stiles. And that way he looked at you, after? He was… pretty impressed. Seemed reinvigorated." Here, Scott looks over his shoulder at Stiles, eyes wide and innocent, hinting but not enough to push, and Stiles just looks back at him, then grumbles something under his breath and reaches out, flicking Scott's forehead.

"Didn't know the full moon caused brain damage," he comments.

Scott laughs this time and finishes the last bit of popcorn right as Stiles reaches into the bowl for more, and when Stiles huffs, Scott just grins and stands up, gesturing for his friend to make room on the couch.

"Shut up," he growls, sprawls opposite Stiles, and the two rearrange their limbs so they both fit, before turning back to the game.

Ten minutes later, after a few bad calls and much gesturing on Scott's behalf, he notices two things – a) that Stiles is making comments under his breath, occasionally groaning at particular obscene calls (which is _progress, _because before, Stiles would only blink and breathe), and b) that, during the commercial breaks, when Scott is texting Allison and Stiles thinks his friend isn't looking, Stiles' focus slips out and a blush crawls up his throat.

For once, Scott is glad to see Stiles spacing out – because he can tell that, this time, it isn't about his dad or the fire.

This time, it's about something both less and more problematic.


	7. Chapter 7

_i apologize for the wait on this one!_

He swipes the towel across the mirror twice, just enough that he can see his face and neck, before knotting the towel around his hips. A few beads of water run down the back of his neck and his temple, and he stares at his red-rimmed eyes for a moment before swallowing a deep breath and leaning against the countertop. His hands latch onto the corners tightly, tendons taut, and he glares at himself, focuses on the length of his lashes, the sharp curve of them, on the chestnut shade of his eyes, the purplish shadows beneath them, the bags. His gaze drops to his mouth, the slight swollenness of his lips, raw from being bitten and nipped.

He only lets himself cry in the shower, where the sound of water colliding against flesh and tile masks his quiet sobs and sniffles. Afterwards, he tells himself he just got soap in his eye, but there's no point in lying. At least, not today.

No, today, he grips the counter and glares at himself, then he dips his head, collects his thoughts, breathes in the heat-saturated air, and whispers, "I miss him so fucking much."

His voice is only half-formed, cracking and raw, and the words hurt; they make his fingers tighten, make him clench his jaw, but he forces himself to keep speaking. Because the words hurt more, locked deep inside him, and everyday they've been pushing closer and closer against his tongue. He can't stand to say them to anyone, but they need to be said, and – and even if it's just to himself, it somehow counts, somehow makes him feel better, even if he feels sick to his stomach.

"I miss him so much, it hurts. I miss worrying, and I miss going to the store and buying ingredients for stupid salad. I miss the curly fries, and I miss the cruiser – I miss sleeping in his office, and sneaking into files." Deep breath, and he momentarily lifts his hand to swipe at his eyes; the tears are forming again, burning their way down his cheeks. "I miss his hugs. I mean, Mom had the best hugs, and she always smelled so good, and it was like home. But D-Dad… he…"

When his voice hitches and breaks, Stiles takes a step back and drops into a crouch, digs his fingers into his scalp, rocks on the balls of his feet until his head bumps against the cabinet. "He made everything so much better, and I feel so alone now. Something's missing and I'll never get it back – I'll never get him back."

He chokes, turns his head and presses his mouth into his shoulder, muffling the whimper that bubbles up his throat. Mentally, _fuck _is on repeat, a quiet little noise inside his mess of thoughts and feelings, and his stomach clenches as he tries to regain himself – tries to regain his balance and his senses, the broken façade he's built up.

It takes all of five minutes, but then he stands, stares at himself in the mirror, nods to a silent beat. He splashes water onto his face, then turns off the bathroom lights and steps back into the bedroom.

* * *

Derek looks up as the door finally opens, and he can't tell what's more torturous – listening to Stiles' broken confession, or seeing the aftermath of it. He knew he should have left as soon as he heard the kid crying in the confines of the shower, or at least as soon as he started speaking. He crossed a line, staying, invaded Stiles' privacy in an unspeakable sort of way.

The idea that Derek was eavesdropping doesn't seem to occur to Stiles, at least not at first – rather, Stiles' gaze flashes to the mass on the edge of the bed, and he twitches, stumbles backward, and Derek listens to his heart pump into overdrive, listens to the dry intake of breath, and can almost pinpoint the moment when the kid realizes it's him. It takes him quite a while before his body relaxes though, and more time before Stiles can stutter, "D-Derek, what're you… uhhh, doing… here?"

Even as he speaks, the teen glances from the door to the window, notices the draft. A shudder passes through him, and Derek notes the gooseflesh that develops on the boy; he stands in response, crossing to the window and shutting it. "Sorry."

Silence, wherein Stiles fiddles with his towel, tightens it, and Derek crosses his arm over his chest, watches him.

There's a full minute before Stiles finally clears his throat, glances up at Derek, asks slowly, "How long have you been there?"

His mouth tightens, and he glances left, right, down, back to Stiles. "Long enough."

A nod, and Stiles reaches up to rub at the back of his neck, digs his teeth into his lip; his heart stammers, and a flush climbs up his throat. Derek can't tell if it's from embarrassment or something else, and his fingers itch to reach out, pull Stiles against his chest – a protective streak, he tells himself, just like when he'd moved the kid onto his bed… That's all.

"Well, I gotta get dressed, so I'd appreciate it if you left." Stiles is cold now, curt, trying to make up for his flash of vulnerability, and Derek pauses, considers leaving – they could forget this ever happened, just like they did when Stiles showed up at his place. But he came here for a reason, even if he's still unclear as to the reason himself, so he turns around and fiddles with a few things on the desk – a math text he had been perusing weeks ago, crunching the numbers inside his head as Stiles babbled to Danny about tech-stuff.

There's an angry huff, but after a few seconds, Stiles starts sifting through drawers, and Derek listens to the tug and pull of fabric against skin. He feels his body heat slightly, at the thought of the teen, damp and warm, and he reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose – he isn't sure why he's acting this way, why he's doing what he's doing. Why the hell he's even here.

Then again, he always was attracted to those things that hurt him the most – he played the hardest sports, trained ruthlessly, broke too many bones as a kid (seriously, it's a good thing he was born a werewolf, otherwise he might not have made it past age seven); he replayed too many hard events in his head at night, still does, and now… Now, here he is, with Stiles – Stiles, who reminds him of everything he's lost, who unleashes all the raw pain he's managed to bury inside of himself.

Stiles, who represents everything Derek wants to leave behind, and yet here he is, chasing it.

The bed squeaks slightly as Stiles drops down onto it, and Derek turns around, eyes the kid – he's wearing a pair of sweats, the elastic of his boxers showing (Fruit of the Loom), and there's a shirt rumpled in his hands. Derek hesitates, then slowly crosses the room and sits down beside him, keeping his distance, yet pushing it at the same time.

Another silence falls, wherein Stiles just breathes, and Derek listens and sips his own air. He knows he should say something (after all, he was the one who came here) but he's not sure what – it's not like he woke up and thought to himself, _Man, I think Stiles and I should have a heart to heart._

Not happening.

So, after a beat, Derek finds himself asking, "How was your run?"

"Good. Cold. Eight miles today. Maybe I'll do cross country."

He nods, isn't sure what to say – he's been out of high school so long that talking about it feels strange. It also reminds him that Stiles is still a child, and yet he's been through so much.

More silence, before Stiles blows out a long breath, shifts, looks up at him. "So did you come here to, like, listen to me shower, or, uh, what?"

Derek blinks, taken aback, and he manages, "I plead the fifth."

Stiles' brows bunch, and then he grins, nods approvingly. "Fair enough – though I'm kinda surprised you even know any of the amendments."

"Yea, well, I wanted to be a lawyer when I was a kid."

"Really?" The kid's nose wrinkles with gentle amusement, "That seems like a weird occupation choice for an eight-year-old."

Derek chuckles to himself, shrugs, meets Stiles' gaze, and they stare at each other for a long moment. It gives him time to notice the way salt crystals have pinched together some of Stiles' eyelashes, how the purplish bags beneath his eyes have deepened; it gives him enough time to feel sick, and after a minute, he looks down at his own lap. "So, what's up?"

It's not much, but it takes more courage than Derek expected – and, seriously, he's done so much scary shit that it bothers him how much emotion debilitates him.

It takes a moment for Stiles to react, but when he does, he leans back, snorts, glances away, rubs at the back of his neck. "Oh, y'know, just the usual," he drawls, sarcastic and hard. Another huff, before he pushes off the bed and yanks his shirt on, kicks at a pile of clothes on the ground. "What do you want, Derek? _Huh? _You've – you've already heard me bawling like a little kid, _babbling._ What do you _want _from me? Want to hear that I'm _all right? _Well, I'm _not _– I'm _not _fucking okay, okay? Is that okay with you?" He becomes breathless, desperate, and the tears build up in his eyes – it makes him grit his teeth and clench his fists, and Derek is left frozen, taken aback.

He swallows hard, feels himself darken slightly, and that in itself is a surprise. "I – I just… I didn't mean to intrude, I just…"

Stiles laughs, gestures toward the window. "Well, I'm glad you think coming into someone's bedroom through their _goddamn window _isn't intruding." It causes the alpha to wince, and when Stiles notices, he straightens some, tightens his jaw – the pride in the action pisses Derek off inexplicably, and suddenly he's on his feet, crowding Stiles up against the wall.

He underestimated Stiles, just as he does with everyone, but mostly, he overestimated himself; he isn't ready for this, isn't ready for any of it. For Stiles' anger, or his passion; he isn't ready for the scent of the kid, or the raw red of his mouth. He isn't ready for the dose of reality the kid is, isn't even ready for what Stiles brings out of him.

"Well I'm fucking sorry I can't partake in your pity party, _Stiles,_" he growls. "In fact, I think you forgot to send out the invitations, because you look pretty lonesome over there, but hey – what do I know?"

Stiles holds his breath, and after a beat, he hisses, "Fuck you, Derek."

The alpha only smirks, shrugs, then tips his chin up, causing the teen to press closer to the wall. "Your dad's dead, Stiles. Deal with it and move on; he's gone, but you're not. You think he'd want you to stand around and mope, pretend your world is ending? Well here's a newsflash – it's not. You throw tantrums, thinking we're all handling you with kid-gloves? Maybe it's because you're acting fucking immature."

The fist that flashes toward him is unexpected, but Derek ducks out of the way; Stiles lunges, and Derek can't quite sidestep him. They fall, entangled, Stiles snarling, and he gets a few hits in – his flailing limbs take a moment to capture, but once Derek does, Stiles starts shouting, "Let _go _of me, you GODDAMN – GET OFF – I'll– I'll–"

The door slams open, and Derek is on top of Stiles, has the kid's arms pinned above his head, and is half-straddling, half-crouching over the top of his thighs. The scent that slams into him is Scott's, and it takes Derek point-one second before he realizes the kid's wolfing out – _seriously?_

Claws dig into his shoulders, yanking him off, and Derek twists, ripping at Scott, finding purchase in his arm, and he catches the kid off balance, wings him off to the side and into the wall. It earns him a snarl, but before Scott can launch himself back at Derek, the alpha growls, eyes flashing ruby red. Instantly, Scott hesitates, eyes darting from Derek to Stiles and back again, gaze lingering primarily on Stiles.

"He's fine," Derek offers, glancing back at the teen, still on the ground, still looking sour. A beat passes, and then Derek shakes his head, reaches up to ruffle his locks, and crosses to the window, cracking it open and slipping out. "Jesus Christ."

* * *

Two hours, thirteen minutes and fifty seconds later, Stiles is standing on an oversized rock jutting into a lake. He picks at a slice of bread and hurls the small chunks into the pond, blindly watching the ducks swarm and compete for the pieces. Once finished, off come his shoes and socks, then his jeans, his shirt, and he takes a deep breath before raising his hands above his head, interlocking his fingers.

One – inhale.

Two – exhale.

Three – eyes squeezed shut, his muscles retract, then release, and he dives into the water neatly. What little splash he creates, the fog that's suspended over the lake covers and mutes, and as he cuts through the world below the surface, he's utterly and ultimately alone.


	8. Chapter 8

_so, i apologize for the unsteady tempo of these updates. especially this one, because i had a great idea but i kept running into a wall, mostly because it didn't make sense with the pacing and whatnot. anyhoo, this one is a little shorter, but hopefully the content makes up for it, as well as the upcoming chapters (which hopefully come sooner than later!). thanks for all the support!_

The temperature of the water is a shock. Automatically, his muscles clench and a sense of survival kicks in. He starts to flail, twisting, arms stretching up and out, pulling toward the surface, and his chest is tight with a rising sense of panic. He squints through the water toward the glare of sun piercing the water, moves toward it, then stops, kicks out his feet and rotates his arms, cutting back and away from the surface. He tries to bunch up his body, feels himself begin to sink; he may not have a lot of muscle, but it definitely outweighs the fat. It's not enough to bring him to the bottom, but enough that his lungs are soon burning and the sun isn't quite as strong.

He waits until there's a genuine pain in his chest, then pulls upward, arms slicing through the water, hips wriggling and feet beating. He's barely broken the surface before he's gasping and sputtering, choking up the water he managed to nearly inhale – his body is burning from cold and the lack of oxygen, and now that he can breathe, it's on the forefront of his mind. Swiping at the water on his face, his fingers are stiff and red, and as he swivels, searching for a way to get out, his body is lethargic.

"Fuck," he mumbles, dipping briefly back below the surface, hoping the water will seem warmer than the air. It doesn't, and he swallows, scans the edges of the lake again. He never actually considered how he was going to get out – then again, he hadn't thought about jumping in, just did it. Not a great idea, considering it's fast approaching winter and, yea, it's not the warmest time of the year.

There isn't a shore to speak of, and most of the lake is surrounding by sheer edges a foot or two tall. The rock he jumped off seems like his best chance – well, that or crawling up a half-rotten log, but he doesn't want to risk getting caught on a branch underwater or slicing himself open.

Despite the fact that his limbs feel heavy, he manages to reach the rock relatively quickly and digs his fingers into the crevices of the surface, curling up on himself so his toes can dig in as well. It takes several attempts to haul himself up, his muscles straining, but eventually he manages to crawl up, panting.

He jerks on his clothing, tugging on his shirt, but halfway through yanking on his jeans, something in the woods startles a flock of chickadees. They burst into the sky with an explosion of extended wings and shifting tree limbs, disrupting the utter silence that had engulfed the lake, and Stiles shouts, flinching away from the noise. His legs are still knotted up in his jeans and he stumbles – there's all of two seconds of arm flailing and growing horror before he slams onto his ass and his head collides against something with a sharp crack that causes a surge of pain and darkness.

* * *

Opening his eyes is a bitch; his head is pounding and there isn't a piece of him that feels warm – in fact, he isn't sure what being warm feels like anymore. Stiles gropes against the ground, pulling himself onto his side, eyes only slits. The sky isn't dark, thank god, but it isn't as bright out as it was before; great.

He groans, digs his elbow into whatever is beneath him – that damn rock, boulder, whateverthefuck – and lifts himself up slightly; the movement causes the world to lurch forward, and before he can control himself, he's choking up his stomach's contents.

A cold sweat breaks out on his skin, and he swallows, nose wrinkling as he rolls, pushing himself up slowly. His stomach clenches and roils, and he knows this definitely isn't good, but he can't just lie around, freezing his balls off – literally, since his briefs are still soaked and his jeans are around his knees.

Three more vomits, a numb attempt at panic, and somewhere between twenty and forty minutes later, he manages to crawl into the jeep, jam his keys repeatedly into places that aren't the ignition. Another five minutes before he actually gets the damn thing started, and with blurry, squinted eyes, he cranks on the heat and reaches for his jacket, fumbling with the fabric until his fingers catch his phone.

He has to bring it close to his face to make out the fuzzy letters, but eventually he finds the name he needs the most and presses his phone to his ear.

A voice clicks on after a handful of seconds: _The number you have dialed is no longer available._

Stiles' face scrunches, swallows, pulls the phone up to his face and looks at the name – he stares at it blankly longer than he needs to, but it takes a while to sink in, for his brain to click back into reality. As soon as it does, as soon as he understands what he just did, the phone drops out of his hand and he fumbles around until the jeep's engine flares into action and the tires begin moving.

* * *

It isn't like he has much a choice – the fact that he was able to drive this far is amazing, or stupid, really. His focus keeps lapsing to other places, his vision is blurred and his head just fucking hurts. It's an act of survival when he takes the turn that brings him to the Hale house, when he pulls up to the house and slumps against the driving wheel, eyes shut and breathing shallow.

The door opens a minute later, but Stiles doesn't move, doesn't even glance – obviously it's Derek, it's gotta be Derek, because if it were anyone else, they'd be babbling and shit. Instead, there's a silence, and then he feels a hand at the back of his neck, squeezing gently.

"Sit up," he commands, and Stiles huffs, but manages to do so, nose wrinkling. Now that his existence is not longer dependent on his attention being honed on the road, the nausea reminds him that he feels like total shit and may or may not vomit all over Derek.

The thought makes him wave a hand in Derek's direction, but the alpha just grunts, "Hold it in for a little longer," and leans close, scooping an arm under Stiles' legs and sliding another behind his back. It takes some maneuvering, but then Stiles is being cradled in Derek's arms and he can't help it – he groans, tips his head against Derek's shoulder and moves his arm to grip the other's shirt in a weak fist. His scent alone is enough to distract Stiles from the discomfort of his stomach, and he tries his best to focus on that, rather than the rocking motion of walking, or the fact that, hours earlier, Derek decided to rip apart all the fragile seams of his world.

The next thing he knows, he's being sat on the second step of the stairwell and told to _Stay _as Derek leaves, only to return a few seconds later with a bucket, which he presses into Stiles' lap carefully, rearranging his hands so they grip the sides. Stiles swallows hard, then lifts his head slowly, squinting up at Derek, waiting for him to leave – instead, the alpha takes a step back and stares at him, eyes wide and almost anxious.

Derek, anxious? Over _him? _Jesus, he really must have hit his head. Stiles smirks to himself, leans his head back and shakes it – not his best idea, because seconds later, he's hunched over, clutching the bucket tightly as he coughs up into it. There isn't much to get up; the little food he had in his stomach is long gone, so all that's left is bile and sourness. It burns his throat and he squeezes his eyes shut, breathes heavily as the nausea eventually fades.

At some point, he comes aware of the hand on his shoulder, on the fingers sliding firmly up to his neck and into his hair before reversing the pattern. It causes his brow to furrow, and when he straightens some, part of his view is obscured by the white t-shirt Derek's wearing. He stares at the fabric for a beat, then mumbles something unintelligible, both to him and Derek, he imagines.

Still, taking it as a signal that he's finished, Derek hands him a glass of water, and Stiles takes a careful mouthful, swishes, spits, and repeats. The bucket is pulled away, the glass is placed on the floor, Derek leaves, reappears, and when he does, he drapes a blanket around his shoulders.

It's almost freakishly easy and sweet, and Stiles isn't sure what to do or feel or say – partly because his brain aches and, yea, he's probably been concussed but whatever, he's been through worse. He wants to ask why Derek's doing this, why he's bothering being nice, considering their 'conversation' earlier in the day – he wants to ask why Derek's touch feels so good.

The questions don't make it to his tongue though, and instead, he's left sighing, eyes fluttering open and closed, finally settling for a half-lidded position as Derek settles beside him. Again, the anxiety, the nerves, and it makes Stiles smirk once more – something that hasn't gone unnoticed by the alpha, because he blinks, asks, "What?"

"Nothin," Stiles breathes in turn, though this time he doesn't shake his head.

The corners of Derek's eyes tighten, as does his mouth, and then he looks away, says softly, "I called an ambulance. You don't _smell _right. What happened?"

To Stiles' ears, the words are a string of fast-forwarded mumbo-jumbo, and it takes a prolonged moment for his mind to unravel the texture of Derek's voice and the meaning of each syllable and – "You – you, what? I… I don' need an amblance," he slurs, leaning away from the other slightly.

"Yes, you do," Derek says simply, shrugging, gaze sliding back to Stiles, careful and gauging. "I don't want to keep jostling you, and I don't know what to do… I mean – you're bleeding, or at least were and I don't want to fuck anything up." He pauses, staring, then shakes his head, mutters, "I'm not a doctor, I can't fix you."

More confusion, more time to unravel what the other is saying, more owlish blinking on Stiles' behalf, but then he just swallows and shuts his eyes, succumbs to the pressure in his skull and to a new jumble of trust for Derek in his gut. It's a fresh discovery, to be honest, isn't something Stiles can place, not right now – he can hardly think.

So he doesn't.

He doesn't think about the slow, quiet way Derek breathes, or the fact that the alpha eventually reaches over and squeezes his knee and keeps his hand there, or as he hears the moan of the ambulance, Derek's grip seems to tighten, mirroring the uneven beating of his heart.

The last time he heard an ambulance, it was for a fire.


	9. Chapter 9

_i apologize profusely for how late this update comes. however, my summer has officially begun and i intend to get back to updating as regularly as i'm able. _

_i hope this makes up for my absence!_

The doctor tucks the flashlight into his breast pocket and makes a thoughtful noise, reaching out to touch Stiles' chin and tipping his head back slowly – the contact would have made him flinch hours earlier, but at this point, he just wants to close his eyes and curl up somewhere warm. Fuck, at this point, it wouldn't even have to be warm, just _someplace._

They've been asking him question after question – what's his name, _no, his _real _name, _and his birthday and who happens to be the president and what the date is and, apparently, his answers aren't satisfactory, because they keep prodding him and asking more questions and murmuring to themselves and writing things on clipboards and, Christ, where is Derek?

It's the only thing Stiles can focus on – where's Derek, where's Derek, where'sDerekwhere'sDerekwhersderekwhersderkwhrsdrk .

Derek, who Stiles can vaguely remember glowering at the EMTs until he was allowed to ride in the back of the ambulance, who moved his hand from Stiles' knee to his hand, cupping Stiles' long, slim fingers between his own larger, rougher ones. They'd been so warm and secure, given Stiles something to hold onto as his vision swam and the nausea rose and the EMT kept pestering him.

The doctor shifts and pivots and says something that sounds encouraging, before sighing and taking a step back, continuing, "I'm going to get you on the list for a CT scan, okay, Stiles?"

He blinks, gaze slipping down to the linoleum floor, and grunts in lieu of answering. The doctor pats his knee once, almost sadly, before leaving. It makes Stiles shut his eyes, reminded of the many backslaps and hair-ruffles his father used to deliver.

When he listens, he can hear the bustle of the ER – the jagged non-pattern of someone crying, breathless moans, and words, so many words he can't make sense of them. Some of them sound panicked, others calm, more hasty and pained. As doctors and nurses pass, their shadows are thrown against the curtain quarantining him, and he can only catch snippets of the long, complex terms they throw around. He knows he could be in worse shape; he knows he's possibly one of the least-damaged people in the ER right now. After all, there are no bones jutting from his skin, there are no foreign bodies inside his body, and the cuts in his skin have already been stitched up, blood dabbed off his face. He should feel lucky, _grateful _even. He concussed himself, then was enough of an idiot to crawl into his jeep and drive himself to Derek's place – all without killing himself.

The EMT had murmured something about having a guardian angel. Now, Stiles can only reflect upon his stupidity. Why hadn't Derek slapped him, shook him, told him how stupid and reckless he was being.

Better yet, _where was Derek? _Because, even though he knows he's in okay-ish shape (minus the fact that his brain got roughed up and hey, might be bleeding inside his skull), even though he knows he isn't going to die or lose a limb, he's scared.

There's something terribly lonely about sitting in a curtained cubicle with the too-bright fluorescent light gouging in your eyes and an IV digging into the crook of your elbow. People bustle in, people bustle out, and although they're all focused on _you_ and _your _wellbeing, it feels like their piercing eyes and intense gazes aren't quite seeing you, but through you. Stiles feels like a ghost, or maybe just a balloon, untethered, floating up and up. This time, though, the ceiling won't contain him, won't stop him, and up and up he goes.

Where's Derek?

* * *

Hours past, or maybe it's just minutes, seconds – life keeps speeding up and sputtering to a stop, giving him whiplash. He can't hold on to anything. His stomach is cramping and his head is throbbing; he keeps rubbing his eyes to get them to focus and stay that way, but everything gets blurry after a few minutes. He feels queasy and uneasy, and if he could walk without plummeting downward, he would leave.

The curtain snaps back with that thought, and Melissa slips inside, gaze anxious, mouth pursed slightly. Stiles squints at her and can't tell if the set of her mouth betrays her anger with him, or her concern for him. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

"How are you feeling?" she asks, coming close to touch his shoulder, fingers squeezing gently. It should be comforting, but it's not.

"Fine," he croaks, running his tongue over his lips. They're cracked and he bites at them.

A small smile touches her mouth, but it doesn't make it to her eyes, which are sharp and anxious; he can't stand to look at her, lets his eyes droop back shut, and instead listens. "It's almost time for your CT scan. It won't take long, the doctor just wants to make sure you're brain is okay. Derek said you were pretty bad."

The name makes his finger flex and he takes a sip of air. Eyes still screwed shut, he asks, "'S any'un… waiting for me?"

A pause.

"Scott is here, Stiles. That's all. After your scan, you should be able to see him."

Stiles mouth twists, attempting to shape itself into a smile, but it feels bitter and sad and he tries to ignore the sting in his eyes. Honestly, he doesn't even know why he's crying – because Derek didn't wait around for him, because he's fucking terrified and the single person that could make everything better, better in a way that neither doctors nor medicine could, is gone.

Gone, gone, gone. Six feet underground, dust.

He wants to scream.

* * *

Climbing into the ambulance felt like stepping into hell. Watching Stiles, ghostly pale and trembling, get strapped to a gurney felt like a betrayal. Derek could smell the spike of anxiety and fear as the ambulance wailed its way to the Hale house; he saw the way the kid's hands clenched hard as he was coaxed onto the gurney, head stabilized and oxygen mask pulled onto his face. He could hear Stiles' heart stutter and pound, the rush of his blood, the sharp ascent of his breathing as he began to panic.

The EMT had to urge him to calm down, tell him it was going to be okay, they were going to the hospital and he was going to get better. Derek shut his eyes against the nonrefundable promises, and followed as they wheeled Stiles to the ambulance, picked him up and pushed him into the back. The other EMT was asking him questions – what had happened, how was Stiles acting, etcetera. Derek had answered numbly, unable to pull his eyes away from Stiles. He looked so fragile. His cheeks were sharp against his skin, the bruised bags beneath his eyes pronounced, lips cracked. He was rank with vomit. Before his father's death, he'd been on his way to filling out, the rest of his body finally catching up with his initial growth spurt; now, though, from the running and the not-eating, he was slim and lethal. It was only exaggerated now, made Derek want to–

He didn't know what. He felt just as lost as Stiles looked. The EMT must have recognized something in his face, because he'd been hesitant to turn Derek down when the alpha went to climb into the ambulance. It took suspiciously little to coax his way inside, although Derek had still straightened his shoulders and gotten a little too close; the effort was wasted, really.

It wasn't that he was reliving his past; there had been no ambulances to climb into, no loved ones to hold onto. There'd only been smoke and charred remains, ashes, dust – he could only guess who was who and what was what; there had been no guarantees. Now, though, as he settled near the foot of the gurney and reached forward to clasp Stiles' hand hard between both of his own, Derek imagined a different history.

Like he'd said, he was a glutton for punishment.

He went through the mental torment like mathematical exercises; where two and two equal four, one death and one death equated to his stomach churning and Derek recalculating what he could have done differently, how it was his fault. His fault, his fault, his fault. The words were a perfect match to the beat of his heart.

At least, they were until Stiles squeezed his hand back, distracting Derek. The kid was staring at him through heavy-lidded eyes, barely open as he looked down at him. The EMT was mopping up the blood on the side of his head, speaking in a low, calm voice that was supposed to be soothing. The light tremble of Stiles' hand said otherwise, and Derek ran his fingers along Stiles', traced the line of his tendons and his veins, ran his thumb over the flat plane of his wrist. He squeezed, and he didn't let go until they made him.

The ER wasn't packed; Stiles would be seen soon, they assured him, but they pushed him away all the same. _Only family._

Derek wanted to growl low in his throat, _What family?_

He fought the urge to let the red tinge light his eyes, instead clenched his hands and found a spot in the waiting room. He lasted ten minutes.

Even that was remarkable.

Without Stiles clinging to him, without Stiles to focus on, the wave of imagery hit Derek like a wall. The smoke, the screaming, hands clawing at bars and the sharp blaze of red, the snap of the flames. He'd hunched over, ran his hands over his face, tried to attach himself to the scent of Stiles, tried to listen to the boy's breathing, tried to listen to the nurse talking to him.

The thoughts weren't anything new; Derek was long familiar with the torture his family had endured, was long familiar with the memories. Somehow, though, with his own spike of anxiety over Stiles' health and the unforgiving nature of the fluorescent lighting, they sharpened, cut into him like razored flower petals.

He knew he should be focusing on Stiles, and yet he couldn't. He couldn't hold on to anything, couldn't anchor himself, and without a second glance, he'd shoved himself to his feet and stalked out of the waiting room, head down, looking strained and close to breaking.

His fingers fumbled into his pocket as soon as he hit the cool evening air, and he pulled out his phone, scrolled through his brief list of contacts before he found the right name: Scott.

The kid picked up on the fifth ring, breathless and edgy, voice rough, "Derek, I'm a little _bus_–"

"Stiles is in the hospital."

A pause, and then he could hear Scott shift around, mumble away from the speaker, "Allison, I can't right now." His voice grew louder as he directed himself back to Derek, asking quietly, "What happened?"

Derek could hear Allison in the background, asking what was wrong, where he was going, _what was happening?!_ "Look, I can't talk. Just get your ass over here and be there for him." Without consent, his lungs drew in a sharp, jagged breath and Derek rubbed at his brow, scrubbed at his face, exhaled a nearly silent, _Fuck._

"Where are you? Why can't you be there for him? Derek, c'mon, he – c'mon, he _needs_ you," Scott said. His tone was accusatory, but there was a softness to it: he was pleading.

If Scott thought that's what would keep him there, pin him down, he was wrong. Derek hung up.


End file.
